Oatmeal tasted of summer, fresh warm flavorful milk tinged infused purple, floating blueberries.
Thick blue platters slid across pink speckled Formica counter one after another, waitress never looking, repetition in motion, “here ya go sis,” and words.
Silently I watched the brunette poke the steak using a knife in her left hand, a knife weathered dishwasher dull, in her left hand. The steak juice flowed red, making puddles for dipping French bread, French bread with real butter. Slowly she cut a piece off the rare steak, her right hand awkwardly balancing the fork, raising it to her open mouth, closing red painted lips around meat, her tongue peeking out just a bit as she chewed.
I stared at her, as she slowly chewed red meat in her mouth, slowly grinding it into energy, replenishing her body. One piece at a time mashed between her white teeth until she swallowed, following each mouthful with a sip of black coffee.
I stared at her, on the oval vinyl stool, unconsciously turning hips side to side in sync to her cutting and chewing, eyes looking straight across the counter into her reflection, on the diners mirrored wall.
I stared at her in public, crossing and uncrossing her legs, eating then sipping from white porcelain mug in her left hand, patting lips with white paper napkins, dipping French bread in blood, enjoying herself.
I stared at her, eating my cold purple oatmeal surrounded by hungry people filling their mouths with too much food, talking little while they stared into the diners mirrored wall.
She never stared back.